Abigail And Mrs Cross Ch 01

It was a not unwelcome surprise to hear Abigail call my name on a Paris street. The last time had been almost eight years earlier, when she'd given my cock a last squeeze in my doorway before she drove back to her parents' house and then had returned to college.

I remembered that scene well. She brushed her hair, bending slightly to the right to pull the comb through. Her long, blonde hair swung freely, as I ran my hands over the gentle bulge of her ass and up the straight line of her back. It had been one last fuck, then her shower, then she was gone. Before, on the bed, she lay with her legs spread, one knee tilted out, her blonde pubic hair matted, redness on the inside of her thighs, redness in her pussy lips, a flushed redness across her chest, a look of satisfaction on her face. I remembered reaching over her to squeeze one of her soft tits, sliding the firm light colored nipple gently between my fingers. Then she was gone.

I turned and waited for her, observing with my painter's eye as she crossed the street. She was of course dressed smartly in dark pants and a cropped top, slim and elegant as always. If I could paint that fluid motion, not sensual but lovely, no . . . more girlishly eager, with all the promises of lust held not in her figure but in the movement, in the athletic grip of her thighs, in the flicker of knowing that those sharp but delicate features could be distorted by passion and surrender. And to think I'd fucked her, that I'd taken her virginity, that I'd been her first. And she had loved me and I had loved her.

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"The bed's in there." She glared at me.

"You don't expect me to do that." She was angry but I was filled with hate, which is stronger.

"Then get the fuck out." Silence. "Those are my terms. If you want me to leave your daughter alone, then you have to fuck me."

"Then let's get this over with."

"No . . . no, no. It's not one fuck. The deal is that you fuck me until Abigail goes back to school."

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious. You want to hear the terms?" She just looked at me. I looked at her tan thighs below her white tennis dress, her shapely calves. "You play tennis five times a week, so I want it four times a week from you. Four different sessions, not fucks. Minimum two fucks or a fuck and a blow job each session. You do what I want - within reason. No condoms. Abigail told me you're on the pill. Oh, and you have to put out. No dead fish."

"You disgust me."

"And I hate your guts. So what? Your daughter loves me and you know I can take her away from here."

"You'd give her up for sex?"

I shrugged. I had my reasons, but I wasn't going to tell her. "You agree?" She hesitated. "Bedroom's that door." I pulled off my undershorts and my cock sprang up. I have a big cock. "I'm ready to go. Agree to the terms?" She was far too much of a bitch to cry.

"You bastard. I agree."

I walked right up to her until my chest was inches from hers. She froze as I put my hands on her hips. With both hands I lifted her dress, then tucked my thumbs over the waistband of her panties and pulled them to her knees. I put my left hand on her privates, gentle but firm, and pushed her panties to the floor with my other. She was wet but her hands hung loosely at her sides.

I half-pushed, half-led her to the bed. She lay back with no resistance and I mounted her, aiming my cock into her pussy, sliding most of the way into her. Felt good, tight, warm. Her eyes were clamped shut, so I stroked my cock into her for a while until she knew it wasn't going to be over in a minute.

"Let's get that dress off you." I kept my cock in her as she turned to one side so I could unzip her. I pulled the dress off her shoulders until her ams came free and then she raised her arms and I inartfully managed to lift it over her head. She lay back, her big tits, bigger than Abigail's, encased in a firm white bra. She lifted again to give me access to the snaps and it was soon off and she was naked, her tits spreading to the sides and I started to hump her harder, not giving her time to think that she was fucking me. "You have to put out." I nuzzled her neck, kissing her ear and then putting my lips on hers. She resisted, turning first to one side then the other, so I lifted up my chest and put my arms under her thighs, bringing her knees to her head. "Kiss me." She didn't move her lips this time and gradually her mouth opened, not in passion but in acceptance. I kissed her gently and then with tongue and then I alternately fucked her hard and gently.

"You want it hard or soft." No reply. "Tell me. Hard or soft."

"I don't care."

"You don't care. Then I'll fuck you the way I want."

Her pussy was very wet and her hands were no longer lying limp by her side. She was holding me, though not very hard, as I ground my pubic bone against her clit and then fucked her deep and hard. It's amazing how sheer burning hatred can make the sex act so intense. I pumped her pussy like it was the only pussy on earth and this fuck had to be the fuck to save all humankind before the end of the world came.

"You like my Jew cock? You like fucking my Jew cock." She was breathing hard but didn't answer. "Here's a load of Jew come for you, for your precious, stuck-up, bigoted pussy." I pushed into her as deep as possible as I came, spurt after spurt after spurt.

I rolled off her. She lay on the bed, not showing emotion. After cooling off for a few minutes, I got on my side and began to play with her tits, making a mound of them, licking the nipples, gently biting the flesh. She kept her eyes closed.

"All right. Time for round two. I want you to suck my cock." She didn't move so I straddled her face and put it to her lips. After a moment's hesitation, she opened her mouth and took me in, just the head at first and then a little more. "Suck." She did and I moved my cock in and out of her mouth, just a little, not enough to gag her. I got off her face, propped a pillow against my back, put one hand behind her head and applied pressure as a hint. She moved her mouth to my cock, took it in one hand and began to give me head. I watched my girlfriend's mother suck my cock, her cheeks indenting with the suction, slurping sounds. Similar face but not as pretty and not because she was older. Abigail looked more like her father, with his leanness and sharpness of feature. Her mother was rounder, a soft brunette, bigger ass, bigger tits, a more voluptuous, rounded beauty of a girl and still a very attractive woman in very good shape from tennis and swimming. She was tanned golden, with white tits showing her coffee brown nipples and a white ass above a bathing suit tan line.

I was stiff as a rod. She looked at it in her hand, perhaps confirming what her mouth could feel, then sucked it again. "Come here." She hesitated but moved toward me. I pulled her face to mine and kissed her deeply with an open mouth and she kissed back but not with passion. "I wanted to taste my cock on your mouth." She moved as if to lie on her back, but I grabbed her hips. "Get on top." She put her head down as if not to acknowledge but swung one leg over me and got in position, her tits swinging into my face. I moved her legs into the proper position and put my hands on her ass. "Aim my cock into your pussy." As I kissed her cheeks, she reached between her legs to put my cock in the opening of her pussy and then started to wiggle down on it. I felt her wetness, felt the first grip when the skin on the outside isn't completely aligned for entry and then, at the moment when the road into her seemed clear, I drove my hips up, slamming my cock deep into her, making her gasp.

"Hold your ass up for me. Not that high. That's right. Now hang on." I slapped my cock into her, rubbing my hands over her ass and thighs, around to her chest, squeezing the small fold of flesh around her side. I held her big tits, moved one and then the other to my mouth, sucking on each nipple, and then pushed her chest into the air until she was sitting almost upright on my cock, but raised slightly above me. When I hit the right angle, I began to fuck her with long strokes, holding her by the tits and then by the ribcage as my hips rose up at her. After a few minutes, I let her fall to me, kissed her deeply again and then slapped her butt hard.

"Oh God." Her first words.

"Tell me you like it." Silence. "I slapped her ass hard and fucked her. She was fucking back, rocking on my cock.

"I like it. I like it."

"Want me to suck your nipples?" She moved her tit to my mouth and I licked and bit her nipple. She was kissing my cheek and forehead. The sound of our bodies banging together filled the room.

I drove into her hard and fast and faster and faster, then eased off and rested and then did it again, fast and faster, then eased off and rested and then again, hard and hard and fast with hard strokes intermingled, then slowed down, not quite resting as she gripped my hair hard with one hand. "Ready for me to come?"

"Yes."

I increased the pace slowly, kneading her breasts, then her sides, then her ass, then taking her head in my hands, then squeezing her arms, fucking all the while, then faster, faster and arching my body exploding into her as she gasps and gasps and then lies fucked out on top of me.

She came to my apartment at mid morning the day after next, dressed again in a white tennis dress, this one with a flared skirt. On my instruction, she pulled off her panties and bent over my couch. I stood naked behind her and rubbed my cock against her pussy. I told her to put it in when she was ready and after a few minutes she reached between her legs and guided me home.

I fucked her slowly, deeply, rubbing my body in circles against her, jamming my cock as far as possible inside her. Then I stood back and told her to fuck herself. She did, moving back and forth on me, moaning and whimpering. As she fucked me, I unzipped her dress and undid her bra and pushed them off her arms until her top was bare and her dress was bunched around her waist, which was connected to me through my stiff prick inside her pussy. I had her open her eyes and look back at me, which she did as I reached around and pulled at her tits. We hit that rhythm of bodies moving in time and as I felt the urge to come grow unbearable, I pulled out, motioned her down and stuck my cock in her mouth. I came and she swallowed, making a soft gagging sound but keeping it all in.

I took her into the shower, cleaned her pussy, spread her at the edge of the bed, pulled up a chair and ate and fingered her until she was almost screaming. I mounted her and this time she fucked me, planting her feet, lifting her hips off the bed and driving her pussy onto my cock until she couldn't go any more. Mrs. Cross was an excellent piece of ass.

I wasn't the right sort for the Cross family, not in those days when most people in so-called polite society cared more about who your parents were and what they did than whether you were an alcoholic or a thief. Every objection I offered would have been fatal but one was beyond the pale. I was a first generation American, son of Eastern European immigrants who still spoke with accents. I was poor and thus could only, in their eyes, be described as a striver or worse, perhaps a fortune hunter, the kind of boy who they believed must want the money and social position an alliance with the Cross family would deliver. I had no respectable trade or at least had rejected those trades in favor of some wild and clearly dubious dream of being an artist.

Each of these failings was a massive indictment but might, maybe, in some small chance have been excused if not for the unforgivable reality that I was Jewish and the Cross family did not like Jews. They did not like Jews at all. Until the horrors of the death camps were revealed, they were in that group which in the right company and on the right occasion would actually say the Jews deserved Hitler's wrath, for of course the Jews were shylocks, clever business cheats, untrustworthy, hooked nose bastards.

And here I was dating their precious only daughter, the light of their life, the perfect blonde Aryan goddess of all that was right with their world. Would this swarthy Jew be allowed to defile this temple? It could not be tolerated. Their friends, their acquaintances, their social circle, their entire world view would not tolerate it. That was why Mrs. Cross came to see me. She wanted to buy me off and she did, only not in the manner she expected.

Irony abounds, for her precious Abigail had pursued me, not the other way round, and she had remained virginal only because I had scruples her family devoutly believed I could never possess. You see, I had plans too, plans that involved taking a giant risk with my future, a risk that I could never impose on Abby. After she went off for her sophomore year, I would go to Europe to paint, living on God knows what, intending to spend every cent or franc or pfennig on canvas and brushes, putting all my energy into creation, into becoming the artist I felt stirring within. It might be years before I could lift my head out of the gutter.

Life with me would have been hell. Abby would have come, I knew, and she would have stuck with me until depression and then bitterness drove us apart.

I knew when Mrs. Cross came to the door that I was leaving. I fucked her because she was a hateful, disgusting bitch who openly treated me with the scorn one usually associates with Southern attitudes toward former slaves. She did all but call me Jewboy. Pumping sperm in her cunt and shooting it in her mouth was exactly the price I needed to exact for sparing their precious WASP progeny.

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Abby stood in front me, half-smiling, pushing a stray lock of hair off her face, and I could see traces of an emotion or a fear, no it was insecurity flickering in her eyes. We regarded each other and when she looked away I leaned forward and kissed her, one cheek then the other, a normal Parisian greeting. She took my hand and we stood together. Small talk, nice to see you, it's been a long time, how are you, each phrase light but loaded, which way are you headed, are you busy, do you have time for coffee or a citron presse´, there's a café around the corner I like.

"I intended to look you up. I wanted to get settled first." The waiter had taken our order.

"Better this way, don't you think? No time to worry about what to say."

"It's more natural."

"You have become an extremely beautiful woman." That was only a slight exaggeration. She was definitely beautiful but somehow not womanly, still more coltish with an energy of youth that mitigated mature sensuality. She gave her half-smile, a gesture I remembered deeply and which I'd often painted on to the lips of various models. It was a movement of ambiguity, conveying sweetness and shyness, acknowledgment and denial, bittersweet and beautiful, Modigliani mixed with Leonardo. "So tell me what brings you to Paris." I wanted to say surely not me, surely you must be married, surely you are wholly immersed in your Connecticut world of wealthy Protestant privilege and since you must be, what stirred you to leave?

Abby leaned forward, put her chin on her hand. "It's all too complicated and now that I've seen you, I'm not certain anymore." She half-smiled again. "I've had a rough time." Just then the waiter returned with our drinks and as he set them down I watched Abby bite her lower lip, something I'd never seen her do before. I took a sip while Abby merely turned her cup round in her fingers. "I was engaged. A long relationship - four years - I found out one night, one of those dark nights you read about in novels, that he liked men." She kept turning her cup. "He laughed about it - like it didn't matter - it was all so ridiculous and we were drunk - he said I didn't need to worry because I'd always be his only girl."

"Maybe it's a testament to your power of attraction."

"That wasn't nice."

"I've never been all that nice."

"No, I guess not." We sized each other up, not glaring with suspicion, being careful.

"I'm sorry about what happened. It's good you found out, but you must feel like you wasted a lot of time."

"You don't sugarcoat it, do you?"

"I'm pretty sure you'd blame yourself. You shouldn't. It's not your fault. He lied to you."

"Thank you." She finally took a sip of coffee. "This is very good."

"The pastries are good too. It's a cliché but the French love food. I'll never be French, but I've learned that loving food makes life better. It's not a little thing. When you learn to put care into food . . . well I can barely stand eating back home anymore. The food back home is made but not prepared. It's shoved at you." I stopped. This wasn't what I wanted to say. "Abby, are you here to see me?"

She made a face. She looked at me, the sun in her eyes catching the blue as she squinted, and nodded. "Yes," she said. I took her hand and, without another word between, called for the bill and paid it. Ten minutes later we were in bed.

I met Abigail in early May at an off-campus cocktail party where socially connected boys and girls drank and the ones with bad reputations lived up to them. She sought me out, hunting me down in the study of the huge summer home one of the group had opened up early and without official parental permission. The place was three or four or five or more times larger than my parents' apartment on the East Side - not The Upper East Side but a lesser portion a few avenues removed from splendor.

She wanted my help fending off a particularly drunken oarsman whose large shoulders and long arms, bearing a full cocktail shaker of martinis and two glasses, threatened to envelop her and drag her away to an upstairs room. I made cooing protective sounds until the beast retreated. In truth, he was a friend who at a glance figured I had a better chance with this one and so chased instead after more sure game.

I am not one of those Hebrews with a strong yearning for a gentile woman's flesh, the shiksa goddess being to me just another potential piece of ass. Blonde hair can be real or from a bottle. Tits are tits and if they're nice I don't care the ethnicity of the woman to whom they are attached. The clenched jaw and drawl of supposedly upper class speech - more existing in parody than in reality - revolted me, not because it meant these people claimed to be my betters but for its sheer ugliness.

This is not say I was disinterested in Abigail. I am not dead and as a living young man I was, to the contrary, aroused by her sight and titillated by conversing with her. That she was intelligent and humorous and not bubble-headed or daffy, that was more awkward socially than her graceful physical presence suggested, only increased the pleasures of the moment.

We began to date immediately, that afternoon turning into a long evening filled with talk and then kissing and Abigail's laying out of the strict rule that she would not go all the way, under any circumstance, until she was married. "Actually married?" I asked. Once it was negotiated that as good as married would suffice for her to open her thighs, I proposed - on one knee, with full professions of regard, desire and a need to cherish and treasure - which she laughed at, saying I should try again later.

I drove her home that night and on the way, sitting in a gas station as the attendant filled the tank, I told her that I was Jewish, that my father was an accountant with a small firm of his own, that my mother was formerly a dressmaker, and that I had obtained my marginal entry to this world of hers as a merit scholarship student. She didn't care. She told me her parents would care, but she did not.

I learned over that summer that Abby's parents cared very much. They were the worst kind of snob, except they weren't newly rich and thus couldn't be sneered at for having risen past their natural state. They genuinely looked down on the lesser classes. They considered other ethnicities as being almost as unforgivably decadent as other races, which they saw as irredeemable - making small allowances of course for Italian opera singers, negro dancers, Jewish doctors (but not Jewish bankers, against whom they competed), and the sundry other types and figures who provided service to their cosseted world.